


To Know the Gate

by XenoMiles



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, The Dunwich Horror - H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Other, Re-imagining Lovecraft, Ritual Sex, Xenophilia, hot for cosmic horrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XenoMiles/pseuds/XenoMiles
Summary: "Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread."A short reclamation of Lavinia Whateley and her power, featuring her encounter with a certain Elder God.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	To Know the Gate

A soundless and invisible pulse rippled through the darkness of the attic. In its wake the darkness changed, turned crisp and taught. The candle flames flickered once, then grew small and still. The final harsh syllables of the chant, fresh from her lips, hung in the air over the circle. For an instant, all was silent, poised. 

Then the floor beneath her creased and folded into itself, the clapboard walls of the farmhouse attic dissolved into shadow. She felt the soaring sensation of the instant before a precipitous fall, her breath stuck in her throat. The heat that had been pooling, churning in her gut surged up her spine. That heat was, at its root, a familiar thing - it had been present most of her life. When she was a child still discovering her woman’s body, Lavinia, frightened and fascinated by such a feeling, once tried to describe it to her mother. She called it sin, lust, evil, and beat Lavinia for the sake of her own salvation. But the look of horror in her mother’s eyes only made the whirling heat more exciting, a dangerous mystery. A secret power.

But ever since she stumbled upon the ancient secrets, the signs to the threshold, that power had taken on new strength. It was quiet mostly in the daylight hours, but in the depths of night it waxed madly. While Dunwich slept, she pried up the floorboard under which she hid the ancient, leather-bound book that was her inheritance and the heat soared in her. By the light of a tallow candle, she mouthed the words to the unholy incantations, licking the residue of rich syllables from her lips. She memorized the feel of every yellowed page and grew slick and pulsing with want as she traced the signs of power on her naked skin.

Had Prudence Whateley lived to know the perversions her daughter devised – the way she rutted against her pillow, or dug her nails into the flesh of her own breasts, or sucked her fingers to wet them before sliding them under her skirts to part her velvet folds – she would surely have gone mad with horror. But since her mother was as cold and dry in her grave as she had been in her bed, and her father drank himself into torpor each night, Lavinia was free to pursue her true desires.

It was so close now – the consummation of all her efforts. The power in her surged as she felt herself drawing ever closer towards an unseen drop.  
But the drop never came. She felt herself suspended in the abyssal darkness, the candles vanished, their points of light retreated and multiplied into a thousand distant stars. The vast emptiness spread out on all sides, reaching into infinity, beautiful and terrible. The only sound was her tremulous breath, the pounding that echoed in her chest.

A warm pressure closed around Lavinia’s bare ankle. It occurred to her that should have flinched at the sudden contact, struggled against it out of mortal instinct. But she did not. The pressure crept slowly, exploring its way up her leg. It was joined by another, gripping her left wrist and holding fast. Then another on her shoulder. Then on her waist, the back of her neck, her thighs. 

She felt the darkness and pressure closing around her, reaching around her throat, its weight pressing over her chest, up to her chin. Her heart quickened, and she took a desperate gulp of air before it closed over her face, engulfing her. She held her precious breath for as long as she could, fear and resolve tangled in her throat, she was drowning, she would drown here in this place...

But she inhaled, and the warm, thick darkness filled her lungs. She felt it nourish her in way mere air never could. 

Then, out of the depths of that place came a piercing hum that vibrated through every cell of her body and every corner of her mind. She felt it read her, probe her every thought, memory, and experience. She felt it echo through lives she had not remembered living and dreams beyond mortal ability. She felt her bones spark and tremble with it, this irresistible Knowing. But she had no desire to resist it, nothing to hide from Him. Lavinia knew very well what she wanted, and she craved it with every fiber of her being. 

“I am yours,” she whispered into the dark, the nothing-that-was-everything.

Lavinia tossed back her head and opened herself to that wonderous and terrible force. It flowed over her and through her, then coalesced into a point, a singularity at once universal in scale and so close that she could have reached out and held it in the palm of her hand. A figure that took shape before her, the presence that shared the darkness – that was the darkness itself. Lavinia knew better than to try to quantify that majestic form in such a flimsy thing as language. 

The figure made no sound that any human would recognize, but Lavinia felt the murmur of a thousand long-forgotten names – all hers. She felt her limbs engulfed, her hair combed through with unseen fingers and splayed out behind her in the sea of shimmering dark. She pressed back into the touch, wanting to feel more, give more, take more, already far beyond the reaches of mortal imaginings. That marvelous heat, fed by months of nightmarish longing and fantastic purpose, flooded through her veins. 

She gasped at the brush of warmth against her sex, in precisely the way she knew how best to touch herself. She bucked her hips up into the sensation, but he clutched them and held her in place. The figure made no sound, but hunger, that same heat, poured from him in waves. Such slickness had gathered between Lavinia’s legs that she could feel it dripping down the inside of her thighs. With one irrevocable motion, the presence spread her legs and plunged into her. There was so much, it seemed unimaginable that any being could feel so gloriously full as she was then, the walls of her stretched around him. Her body shuddered, she cried out in ecstasy, but no sound escaped her lips. More thick, pulsing presence pushed past them and into her throat, writhing against her tongue. The hot, wet fullness drove into her again and again, her breasts held in the dark, peaked hard and trembling. 

The darkness grew taught, the tension deepened until it was almost painful, the impaling thrusts came faster, harder. She felt as though she would come apart, perhaps she already had. The vibration grew to a fever pitch, it filled every cell of her. The fire in her coiled and exploded in a screaming fusion of energy. She felt the presence pour into her, flooding her, overflowing as her body was wracked with lightning waves of pleasure, of wonder and wholeness. The darkness held her close, and in her ear it murmured the names of countless unspeakable things. 

After an eternity, during which universes were born and died, and yet in the span of an instant, the presence faded, as Lavinia knew it must. Slowly, her senses returned to the confines of the mortal world. She felt solid ground beneath her back again and breathed the stale, dust-filled air of a farmhouse attic. The light of dawn infiltrated through the cracks in the boards, casting glowing stripes over the naked woman laying splayed in a circle of chalk, salt, and spent candles. 

When at last her breath quieted, and her body ceased its trembling Lavinia Whateley gathered herself and climbed to her feet. In the yard the chickens squawked to be fed, and in the distance the sounds of the town awakening - the frail world of the mundane whining for her attention. But a thread of heat rippled down her spine, and beneath the din of the material, she could hear the loving whisper of her unspeakable names.


End file.
